


First of Many

by TheWildChilde



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Eros is not the Inquisitor, Inquisitor (Dragon Age) is not the Protagonist, M/M, Minor Female Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Minor The Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, References to Drugs, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26870332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWildChilde/pseuds/TheWildChilde
Summary: It’s only when Dorian is dressed and about to leave that Eros stops him with a hand on his arm, warm and insistent.“Dorian…” There’s so much to say and not enough time. Another little piece of Eros settles inside his heart. “Don’t let them change you.”---Dorian meets an elf, Eros, on his family's property as a young teen. Pieces of Eros settle in his heart and no matter how far from home Dorian travels he always finds things that remind him of his first kiss.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Female Lavellan & Dorian Pavus, Female Lavellan/Solas, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 12
Kudos: 15





	1. Fifteen: First Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Currently sitting at 5 chapters, it may also get an epilogue XD

Dorian Pavus is fifteen when he first kisses a boy.

He’s finished his lessons for the day and instead of going to clean up and prepare for company as was requested, he slips out his window and heads into the beautiful woods nearby. If he’s being honest with himself, he wants to escape, but he’s not honest, even with himself, so he’s going to find rare mushrooms that grow in the area during the autumn.

There’s been very little research into their growth cycles, and it’s become a little side project for his studies.

Out in the woods is calm and peaceful as he searches through the leaf litter and he enjoys the time he gets to spend alone even if it seems his search will be fruitless this time.

Until he’s no longer alone.

A young man of similar age is sitting on the stump of a fallen tree, a bemused smile on his face as he watches Dorian. His eyes are shadowed by a deep blue hood, but dark brown locks of hair spill from within.

Dorian doesn’t want to admit he’s startled by the man’s sudden appearance, but he drops his observation journal and the stranger laughs; it’s scratchy and flat and exposes straight white teeth. Dorian huffs and snatches his book from the ground, eyes narrowed.

“You’re on private property.”

“Hardly. You’ve walked further than you think, your arbitrarily claimed ‘property’ ends at least ten trees back that way.” He gestures the way Dorian had come and when silver eyes look over his shoulder, he realises the other teen is correct.

“Even still,” Dorian mutters. The stranger shrugs and turns to dig through a small satchel at his side, producing a handful of the mushrooms Dorian has been searching for. “Where did you find those?”

The stranger just laughs again and stands, unfolding long slender legs and Dorian sees his bare feet, filthy from lack of shoes.

 _Urg_ , he thinks, _some kind of vagabond._

“Why do you want them? Do you even know what they do, shem?” The stranger tugs his hood off and stares Dorian down defiantly. It’s the first time an elf has so much as made eye contact with him and it hits him like a lightning bolt just how beautiful this stranger is. It’s a strange beauty, definitely not pretty by any standard in Tevinter, but stunning all the same. His whole person seems to be uneven and mismatched; his face, mostly tanned save for a pale splash of skin that reaches from above his right eyebrow, bisecting it into two colours, across the tip of his nose and over most of his lips and his right cheek. His hair is mostly rich and brown, save for anything that is touched by the paler skin which is so blonde the strands appear almost white when the light catches them. His eyes are mismatched too, one stormy blue and the other honey brown, and they hold no fear or shame when they lock with Dorian’s.

It’s a challenge Dorian can’t refuse, and he straightens his shoulders proudly.

“Of course, I do, I’m out here for more research.”

The elf lets out a little snort of laughter and Dorian notes that even his smile is lopsided. Dorian feels a flutter in his stomach which he dutifully pushes down.

“Why study something when there are people who already know about it?”

“I’ve not found a single mention of this species in the libraries—”

“Just ‘cos it’s not in books, doesn’t mean people don’t know about it.” The elf puts his hands on those slender hips and Dorian notices how deceptively toned his arms are. He notices this before he notices the dagger on his hip. He’s heard about wild elves out in the woods who hunt and kill Tevinter mages and he swallows. His staff is at home, an oversight he’s starting to regret. As if sensing his unease, the elf laughs and relaxes his stance. “I’m not going to eat you, shemlen. I just want to know why you’re so curious about the mushrooms.”

After a moment Dorian simply says, “I like learning new things.”

It seems to be a satisfactory answer and the elf sits back on his stump, petting the log beside him. “Learning is good, it’s how you grow.”

Dorian hesitates long enough for those strange eyes to find him once more and he feels like his whole body has caught fire. He’s known for a long time that he’s had no interest in the women his parents have continuously pushed at him, known that he finds himself drawn to other men in a way that makes his mother’s face scrunch up like she’s been eating lemons. He knows that fiery feeling, that fluttering heat, knows he’s being a fool. He’s just met this man—this _elf_ —and here he is, already taken with him.

 _Pathetic._ His own thoughts sound like his father.

“Are you just going to stand there like a stunned nug, or do you want to learn?”

Dorian huffs and approaches, perching on the edge of the log as the elf watches.

“Fine, if you think you’re so clever,” Dorian says, gesturing grandly.

The elf just smiles for a long moment. “Eros.”

“Excuse me?”

“My name. Eros. Though I don’t know yours.”

He’s so taken aback he just replies, “It’s Dorian…”

Eros’ smile widens and Dorian feels his heart skip. Who does this elf think he is? How dare he make the scion of the House Pavus feel like a fool.

“So, what have you discovered so far, Dorian?” The way Eros says his name creeps into Dorian’s mind and settles there, right where it fits, but is most unwelcome.

“Their brewing properties mostly.”

“You’re either tight lipped or you don’t know much.”

“I know plenty, Eros.” It isn’t lost on him the way the elf’s ears twitch slightly. “But knowledge is power.”

That laugh again. Eros holds one mushroom in his hand, turning it over carefully and slender fingers brushing over the soft flesh. Dorian can’t remember the last time he was this close to an elf and he’s stuck by how delicate their features are. Maybe it’s just Eros, but his bone structure is angular, with a sloping nose and high cheekbones, smooth jaw. He’s distracted again. To his own credit, Eros appears to be studying him in a similar way and he lifts his chin, preening slightly.

“True, but if knowledge remains insular then you will never know the world beyond your nose. I’ve never distilled them into potions, it’s not something I would’ve thought to do, simply because my Keeper didn’t make potions.”

“What on earth would you make instead?”

“Salves mostly. Works for most wounds—anything a salve can’t fix, there’s always magic. Do you know what happens if you eat it?” Eros has a look in his eyes that Dorian knows means the effect is probably not pleasant.

“Well, when distilled into potions it has a relaxing effect in small doses. A large dose can sometimes cause death.”

“Oh, I don’t think I want to know who you killed.” The implication is there and that annoys Dorian.

“It wasn’t an elf.”

Eros snorts. He sounds like an animal when he does. “So it wasn’t some random slave, but an enemy of yours? An enemy of your house?”

“I was simply trying to loosen his tongue. Alcohol seems to…exacerbate the effects.”

“And here I thought these were just a fun little mushroom that gave you visions. Why is everything good also bad for you?” Eros sighs dramatically. He tugs a tiny knife from a sheath on his wrist and cuts the mushrooms in half.

“Because we always want what we can’t have,” Dorian says simply. There’s more to it, more to his words, but he can’t say it out loud. Not yet. There’s an understanding in the elf’s smile as he cuts the mushroom in half again, offering a quarter to Dorian. He takes it cautiously and Eros watches him.

“What else do you want to know about them?” Eros pops the mushroom in his mouth and chews, swallowing without any change to his face. Dorian does so as well. It tastes bitter and he knows he makes a face as he swallows it. The elf bites back a smile.

“I know it grows in this area but finding more about its cultivation would allow me to grow my own,” he grits out. His throat feels slightly raw with the aftertaste of the mushroom and something in the back of his mind is scolding him for putting something poisonous in his mouth simply because a stranger he met in the woods did.

“Oh…but that would mean you wouldn’t come out here to find more mushrooms,” Eros mumbles, tucking some stray stands of hair behind his ear.

Dorian tips his head and frowns slightly. “Have you been watching me?”

The tips of his pointy ears turn pink and Eros rubs the back of his neck before busying himself with tucking his knife back into its sheath.

“I mean you’re the only human who really comes out here. And the Dalish definitely don’t come this close to Tevinter cities…”

“But you do?”

“It’s complicated.”

He wants to press, to know more, but he’s distracted by a strange tingling in the tips of his fingers. It almost feels like the precursor to casting storm magic.

They stay seated on the fallen tree, Eros talking about the forest and how to find and identify mushrooms, about what other strange plants grow in the area, and about the best times to find and harvest certain plants and fungi. Dorian dutifully tries to write most of this down, but the tingling in his fingers has spread to his hands and by the time Eros stops talking it’s almost to his elbows. His head feels like it’s full of wool and the world around them feels much more vibrant, the colours saturated and bright and the light from the setting sun dapples across the elf’s skin just so. The silence hangs between them, but it’s peaceful, punctuated by the sounds of the forest around them, and it’s too picturesque and Dorian hasn’t felt this relaxed in years.

It’s the only excuse he has for what makes him lean forward and kiss Eros. Dorian loses himself to the sensation, the smell of dried leaves and spices that linger around Eros, the feel of his lips and the small raised scar he hadn’t noticed but can definitely feel. All the fluttering in his chest overwhelms him and he feels a hand on his own, braced against the rough bark of the fallen tree.

When he pulls away Eros has a stunned look on his face and reality slams into Dorian. He stands suddenly and snatches his book up.

“It’s late, I need to go back.”

“Oh—”

Dorian is gone before Eros can speak.

\---

When Dorian arrives home it’s nearly completely dark, his mother is furious, and the world around him swims with colours and shapes and movements. It takes every ounce of self-control he can muster to sit at the table with the Tilani family and make polite conversation. Athanir is there, and his little sister Mietta, but he can hardly bring himself to speak, his own voice sounds foreign on his ears.

That night he lays awake and stares at his ceiling as it tells him stories of heroes and warriors from beyond the stars. He sees a tiny elf fall from a hole in the sky as it tears open. He sleeps like the dead and wakes at midday, much to his parents’ chagrin.

There’s a parcel on his windowsill, wrapped in simple brown paper, with a note attached. The handwriting is plain and simple, nothing like his own flourishing hand, and simply reads ‘You forgot this.’.

Inside are three mushrooms.


	2. Eighteen: First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eros is no longer a stranger, even if he's still strange, and Dorian finds peace with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teen rating for this chapter. The descriptions are vague enough that I didn't feel the need to bump it to M.

By the time Dorian Pavus is eighteen he’s fooled around with four different men. He’s never had sex with one.

He gets kicked out of his fifth Circle.

His parents conspire with the Tilani family to have him and Mietta betrothed.

Mietta laughs outright when they’re both sat down and told that, when she turns eighteen, they’ll be married. Dorian thinks he might throw up.

Maevaris Tilani stands quietly behind her father and frowns softly, mouthing a ‘sorry’ to Dorian and he knows she probably tried to talk her parents out of it. He can feel his parents behind him, father’s hand on his shoulder, and knows he should’ve seen this coming. Love doesn’t factor into marriage in Tevinter, and neither does one’s sexual preferences. The adults excuse themselves to his father’s study and he’s left alone with the two girls. Propriety be damned.

Mietta instantly stands and points at Dorian.

“I’m not marrying you,” she proclaims.

“Mietta, you don’t really have a choice,” Maevaris scoffs.

“ _You_ marry him then! You’re a girl now!”

“I don’t think that’s really the point,” Dorian says, rolling his eyes. He’d rather marry Maevaris, they have much more in common; not that he doesn’t think Mietta is beautiful and charming, but he can see how much he will come to loathe her, and he doesn’t want that.

She deserves better.

He wants better.

The three of them sit in silence for a long moment, Mietta throwing herself back into the armchair and Maevaris perched on the arm of it.

“Excuse me,” he mutters, disappearing from the library. He can hear them talking from his room as he slumps into his chair, drinking wine stolen from his father’s reserve, and staring out his window into the woods. The two girls back-and-forth about not having a say.

“We can’t have babies!” Maevaris shouts.

Mietta makes a rude remark about her sister’s lifestyle and his own. It’s said in frustration and anger—she’s always been supportive, good at keeping secrets for them both—but it still stings. He knows it probably stings Maevaris more.

Out in the moonlight he spies something moving through the trees, he sees the glint of metal and a splash of white and his eyes find the shape of Eros. The elf is standing at the edge of the tree line looking curiously at the estate, a hulking great mass of shadows at his side. Dorian is drunk enough to ignore his brain screaming to stay inside, and before he can stop himself his window is open and he is clambering out. He can count the amount of times he’s seen Eros since they kissed on both hands. After that initial meeting they would spend hours just sitting around discussing magic techniques or plants, and maybe sometimes they lay in the grass and talk about the stars, and maybe sometimes their fingers would brush, but they’ve never kissed again. They never spoke about the kiss again, either.

Dorian can see the way Eros smiles when he approaches, hushing the elf and shooing him away so they can both escape into the woods for a while. The hulking mass turns out to be a wolf Eros has befriended; friendly, but by no means tame. Its fur is deep black and damp from recent rain, and it watches Dorian suspiciously with the same mismatched eyes as Eros.

A lump forms in his chest as they wander further away from his home than Dorian has ever been before. They pick their way between enormous trees, over moss and rocks until they come to a tiny clearing with a shack built right there in the middle of the forest. Eros leads him inside and the lump bursts from Dorian’s chest in a torrent of words. He tells Eros everything in a way he’s never been able to.

And Eros simply listens, and waits, and is patient and kind.

When he’s done Dorian flops down, exhausted, onto the nearest soft-looking surface—a nest of furs and blankets masquerading as a bed—and puts his head on his knees. A warm hand rests on his back and he leans into the elf as Eros crouches beside him.

“I don’t want to hate her,” Dorian whispers.

Eros is quiet for a long moment, before sitting down properly and resting his cheek on Dorian’s shoulder. “Did I ever tell you how I got here?”

“Huh?” Dorian gingerly rests his cheek on Eros’ head, relaxing into the closeness. “No, I don’t think you have…”

“I grew up Dalish. My clan roamed the northern Free Marches. When they realised I was a mage they had to send me away, to another Clan, that’s how the Dalish handle it. My new Clan was okay, but they were wary of me coz of my face…then some shems attacked us and suddenly I was ‘touched by Fen’Harel’ and was cursed or bad luck or something. So they sent me away, and I was by myself. It was…shit.” Eros reaches up and pets Dorian’s hair. “It’s why I don’t have any vallaslin…the markings on my face.”

“I know what vallaslin is. I had always assumed you were from the cities.” Dorian speaks to his knees, simply enjoying the sensation of being comforted.

“Beside the point,” Eros chuckles. “What I’m trying to say is I get it. I get not being able to feel a part of your community for things you can’t change about yourself. I’m…yeah,” he trails off with a sigh.

Dorian smiles, finally looking at Eros. Their eyes meet for only a moment and understanding passes between them before Eros leans in to kiss him.

It’s not like their first kiss, not soft or chaste, but curious and needy. As he unfurls from his hunched position Eros pulls away slightly and Dorian feels his heart stutter.

 _Don’t go_ , his mind screams. He reaches for the elf.

Eros captures his hand and tugs him forward, allowing Dorian to crawl over him as he lays down against the bedding.

“Are you sure?” Eros breathes, one hand coming to rest against Dorian’s cheek. He can only answer with another kiss, searing and desperate. Their movements are inexperienced and a little bit frantic as they fumble to free each other of clothes, and the world outside is forgotten. They aren’t pariahs from their homes, they aren’t alone in the world, it’s simply the two of them, skin upon skin as their breath mingles and they cling desperately to a moment of peace from their thoughts. Dorian’s hands roam over Eros and he can feel the strength of each muscle as the elf arches against him; and Eros’ nails draw red lines across Dorian’s back that leave him panting and shivering as they find their release together.

They lay in the afterglow and with a lazy flick of his wrist Eros ignites the small hearth. In the new light Dorian can see the patchwork of his skin, that warm tan broken up by paler strokes from some haphazard god. Dorian thinks he’s beautiful.

Eros stretches and hums softly, gazing up at the thatched roof with a dreamy smile. Dorian sighs and watches the elf’s ear flick as his breath ghosts over it. He wants to lay here forever, but a soft growling from outside the hut lets the truth creep in and he knows he can’t stay. It rouses Eros enough for him to stand, tugging his leggings back on and moving over to the door to peer out.

“It’s a deer, don’t scare me like that,” he hisses, scolding the wolf. Dorian chuckles.

“I thought you said it was friendly.”

“She is. She eats deer.” Eros sighs, and as he turns Dorian is keenly away that he is the deer and Eros is the wolf. The elf prowls back to the bed and crouches at the edge of the blankets, eyes daring Dorian to make the first move.

But the moment is broken, and Dorian knows that when he goes home there will be arguments and lengthy discussions and anger. He knows he can’t stay. Eros understands, relaxing onto his knees and offering Dorian his discarded breeches. They dress in silence and the air is heavy with the scent of sex and woodsmoke. It’s only when Dorian is dressed and about to leave that Eros stops him with a hand on his arm, warm and insistent.

“Dorian…” There’s so much to say and not enough time. Another little piece of Eros settles inside his heart. “Don’t let them change you.”

He can’t respond, doesn’t know how. Instead he drags Eros into a hug and kisses the tip of his ear, and then he’s gone.

\---

The Tilanis are gone when he returns home.

The house is silent as he slips through his bedroom window and picks up the half empty bottle of wine, drinking deeply.

There’s a letter on his bed, sealed with a deep red wax stamp. It’s a letter welcoming him to the Order of Argent.

He finishes the wine and hurls the bottle out the window in frustration. He hears it shatter somewhere in the yard.

He’s sent away the next day. He misses Eros.

Three months later, Mietta turns eighteen. She disappears from her bed that night.

Dorian thinks she has the right idea. He disappears the night after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta <3


	3. Twenty: First Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even after all these years, the piece of Eros that lives within him still pulls on his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this amazing piece of art by Ah_Nommynomnom!! Thank you so much!  
> [Amazing Art Alert](https://that-lambo-though-nomnom.tumblr.com/post/631797074383486976/really-wanted-to-try-drawing-eros-who-belongs-to)

Dorian Pavus is twenty. He has been missing for fourteen months when Magister Gereon Alexius finds him in a drunken stupor in the alienage outside Minrathous.

He’s certain that Alexius will send him packing, back to the templars at the Order of Argent; but instead the Magister offers him a ride back to the city, and a place to stay that night. Though he’s wary at first, their conversation in the carriage is easy and meaningful. They talk at length about the state of the Imperium, about magical theory, expanding knowledge, and it’s the most relaxed Dorian has felt in a while…though the drink flowing through his veins in place of blood is probably part of that.

When he wakes the next morning, sure his skull is about to split open, he is invited to share breakfast with Alexius, his wife, and their son. They’re interesting people. Livia is strong willed and sharp as a knife, and Felix is only a few years younger than Dorian and, while less adept at magic, is clever and quick on the uptake. Alexius himself takes Dorian aside after their meal and he braces for the inevitable ‘I contacted your parents’ or ‘The Templars are on their way’, but it doesn’t come. Instead he’s offered an apprenticeship with the Magister. It’s an offer he can’t refuse, and he wouldn’t even if he could. He knows this is the opportunity he’s been waiting for, to escape the ridiculous rigor of the Circle schools, to study and learn with someone who shares his interest in magical advancements and techniques.

“You have a lot of potential, and a good mind for learning.”

“One should always seek to learn and expand one’s knowledge.” He’s impressed by his own ability to hold a conversation with an entire Orlesian army banging around in his brain.

“To learn is to grow, Dorian.”

His heart suddenly hurts more than his head.

They make their agreement. His parents are informed, his things are sent to Minrathous, and he lays awake that night and remembers what felt like forever ago.

+++

A few months after Dorian Pavus turns twenty-four, Alexius loses his wife, and Felix contracts the Blight. Losing Livia is like losing a mother. She’s been better to him than his own ever was, and he grieves her like he didn’t think he knew how. Alexius excuses him from his studies temporarily and he spends winter afternoons keeping Felix company, trying to offer him any kind of comfort. Felix alternates between talking endlessly about his studies in Orlais as some way to not think about his mother’s death; and staring blankly at the wall, contemplating his own impending mortality.

Dorian learns more compassion in those times than he thought he was capable of. Felix is his friend, one like he’s never had before, and he can see Alexius trying not to fall apart. He hurts for them, his own pain just an addition to theirs. His dreams only offer him fleeting memories of happier times; eating breakfast with them, Felix sneaking him treats during late-night studies, Livia’s ruthless wit as she tears her rivals down with her silver tongue.

When he resumes his tutelage with Alexius, the man has changed.

Their discussions turn towards time magic and finding a cure for the Blight. For two years he tries to keep his mentor on the right path, enjoying the theory of time travel but knowing there are too many risks, knowing there’s never going to be a cure for the Blight.

Felix comes to terms with his death sentence and while Alexius won’t allow him to return to Orlais, he is comfortable studying from home and just enjoying life. Dorian is glad for his company.

After two years Dorian has had enough.

He and Alexius fight, it’s loud and almost comes to blows, a proper row, and even as Dorian is stuffing essentials into a bag he can’t remember what it was about. He’s sure he said something cruel about moving past Livia’s death. He leaves a note for Felix and storms from the house with only a bag full of clothes and money, and heads straight for the nearest slum.

He cuts through a section of forest and in the dark of the night a shadow crosses his path. A wolf. They stare at each other for a long moment and he feels something familiar stir in the back of his mind. It has one blue eye and one brown eye. The moment passes and the wolf moves on, unperturbed by an angry human.

Dorian drinks himself into a stupor and into some handsome man’s bed and as he lays awake that night he thinks of mismatched eyes and patchwork skin.

\---

For nearly seven months Dorian drinks and fucks his way from Minrathous to Vyrantium. There he meets Lord Ulio Abrexis who lets him lounge about his house and enjoy their mutual debauchery, until it’s not convenient anymore and his family bundles him into a carriage and carts him back to Qarinus.

They keep him like a prisoner in his own home, his childhood home, for months before he finally escapes.

It’s late afternoon as he runs through the forest with only the clothes on his back and a staff in his hands. It’s been nearly ten years, but he moves between the huge trees and carefully over mossy rocks. Dorian knows he’s lost but he doesn’t care—anywhere is better than going home—when he finally stumbles into the clearing, bleary eyed and exhausted.

The hut that once stood there is nothing but charred rubble, and his heart breaks.

He wants to scream. This was supposed to be his chance. His legs give out under him and he sinks to his knees.

_You’re a fool, Dorian Pavus. It’s been seven years. Do you really think he’d still be here for you, if he’s even still alive? Foolish._

Dorian doesn’t know how long he sits there, wallowing and berating himself. The last rays from the setting sun casts eerie shadows across the wreckage and something catches the light. Slowly he moves towards it, brushing the ashes away. He plucks a small knife from the ruins and remembers watching Eros cut a mushroom in half.

He breathes deep and sighs. Time to go. He’ll figure it out.

_Don’t let the change you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the briefness of this chapter <3  
> Thank you to my beta!


	4. First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new and strange elf finds space in Dorian's life, and he knows he would do anything for her.

When the sky rips open, Dorian is nearly thirty. He hears about the Dalish woman who falls from the Fade, The Herald of Andraste, and he laughs at what a meltdown the southern Chantry must be having over a _Dalish_ elf being called _The Herald of Andraste_. It’s amusing until Alexius contacts him with ravings about The Elder One, the Venatori, and asks for aid taking control of the southern rebel mages. He declines, instead heading to Redcliffe in secret.

He has to warn her, this Herald.

They meet in Redcliffe and he’s struck by how slight she is. She looks like she’d blow away in a strong wind, but she leaps around with cat-like grace, her daggers slicing through demons as she skims across the floor. She sheaths her daggers and smiles like sunshine as she wipes their blood from her cheek and banters back and forth with him like they’ve been doing this for years.

She calls herself Rhiannon, and she seems onboard with the fruit basket.

Rhiannon is the one who defends him and wants to hear his plan when he turns up at Haven unannounced. She listens, wants to help the mages, has seen their suffering, and knows that they cannot leave them to the Venatori. She wants to believe the Templars can resist.

Dorian guides her through the future, watches her hold back her grief as she sees the Seeker’s faith shaken, sees the elven archer cower from her, sees the elven mage so full of regret. He nearly loses her, so desperate to save her friends she nearly fails to go back in time with him—but they make it. Alexius is arrested.

Dorian Pavus is nearly thirty, and he joins The Inquisition.

The Templars attack Haven and he’s sure this is over before it’s begun. Their Herald is dead, and everyone is shaken. He sits in the snow, away from the rest of the group; he’s Tevinter, they don’t trust him. Only Rhiannon trusted him.

Shouting. Commander Cullen spots her first, just as she collapses into the snow. He returns, cradling her in his arms, she seems so fragile as she’s laid in a cot. Dorian moves to sit beside the unconscious Rhiannon, and he talks to her about inconsequential things, occasionally exchanging words about magic with Solas as he comes over to aid her recovery with magic. He’s impressed by the elf’s healing skills; it’s never been his strong suit.

When Rhiannon wakes the others sing, and he’s never felt more out of place in his entire life. She wanders away with Solas, the Seeker’s gaze following them, Dorian feels like he might crawl out of his own skin as he fidgets and fusses over nothing.

It takes over a month to trek from Haven to a mysterious location, that neither Rhiannon nor Solas will disclose. Dorian loathes every moment of it. It’s cold and wet and mountainous and by the time they all collapse into the courtyard of Skyhold he vows to never walk anywhere ever again.

They’re barely settled in before they’re out on missions again, saving the world, one village at a time. Back to the Hinterlands to tie up loose ends, then west to the lush green of The Emerald Graves, and even further west to the scorching sands of The Western Approach. Rhiannon takes it all in stride, even as she recovers from nearly freezing to death.

He can’t think of anyone better to lead than her.

\---

The look on Rhiannon’s face as she approaches him is enough to make Dorian put his book down before she speaks.

“I’ve got a letter for you, Dorian…”

He can hear her unease, but he smiles flippantly. “A letter? Is it a naughty letter?”

“It’s from your father…”

_Oh._

Dorian sighs and takes the letter. Something about aid for the Inquisition, a retainer. Annoyance bubbles over and he snarks about his father’s methods, but he agrees to go to Redcliffe with Rhiannon and meet this fellow.

It’s a mistake. There is no retainer. Just his father, and a desperate plea.

Dorian is furious and the look on Rhiannon’s face is unreadable, but he hears his own voice crack when he explains his father’s attempts to change him. She stops him as he turns, reaching up to touch his face gently, her deep purple eyes swirling with emotions he can’t read.

“Don’t leave it like this Dorian,” she says quietly. Her gaze flicks to his father, then back to him. “Don’t let pride and pain stop you from healing…”

Anger swells, and he hates her for a moment. How dare she, what does she know of it? He knows she’s right, and he doesn’t hate her, he hates being wrong. So he turns back to his father and she steps outside to wait with the others. He refuses to speak first and his father takes a deep breath.

“This is my fault, Dorian. I never intended to drive you away, to this Inquisition. I only wanted you to be happy.”

Dorian is taken aback, speechless for a moment before he finds his tongue again.

“But you didn’t want that. If you’d truly wanted me to be happy, you would’ve loved me as I was. Instead you tried to fix something that wasn’t broken and made a mess.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Dorian sighs.

In the end he feels better about it; he hasn’t forgiven his father, but they have an understanding, and that’s enough for now.

\---

“You know you should just tell him how you feel, Inquisitor,” Dorian says, not looking up from his book. She sputters indignantly and sets herself on the arm of his chair, plucking the book from his hands and pouting at him. The light from the library window halos her pale hair and she glances at the book before setting it down.

“That isn’t even what I came to talk about,” she huffs, though she’s smiling in that infectious way that pulls at his lips.

“It was either him or about how you want me to accompany you to some cheery little backwater full of undead or Red Templars. Yes?”

She looks like she wants to protest, but then sighs, defeated for the moment.

“I can’t tell him; it feels so silly. Besides, we’re in the middle of a war, and there’s so much on the line, and we could all die at any moment, and I don’t think I should’ve kissed him—”

“Rhia, stop.” He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles, the gesture making her flush. “For someone who’s killed as many people as you have, you’re very easy to fluster.”

This only gets him a smack on the shoulder and he laughs. It’s easy with her. She has an aura of energy about her and a smile that puts almost everyone she meets at ease.

“It’s just…a lot,” she sighs, leaning her cheek atop his head.

“Firstly, you kissed him and didn’t tell me. Secondly, would you regret it? He’s…charming in his own way.” He rubs his thumb over her knuckles.

“I mean maybe not. I think the Keeper would be the most objectionable. She doesn’t trust anyone who’s not Dalish...”

Dorian smiles, turning her hand over in his and absently checking the callouses on her palms. She’d recently torn open a lager blister from wielding her new dagger, but it was healing nicely.

“And what about you, Rhi?”

“Huh?”

“Would you stop if they told you to?”

She straightens up and looks out his window thoughtfully. “No.” Her pale cheeks darken, making her vivid purple vallaslin almost glow. “I like him a lot, Dorian,” she whispers conspiratorially and giggles.

Dorian chuckles and picks up his book again. “You should tell him that. He’s down in that rotunda and he indulges you a lot more than he does me.”

Rhiannon raises an eyebrow and her violet eyes bore into the side of his head. Then she stands and stretches, sighing dramatically as someone wanders past his alcove.

“I did want to talk to you about some official business too. It will be more fun than Emprise du Lion, promise.” There’s a hopeful look in her eyes.

Dorian gives her a sceptical look, but gestures for her to continue.

“They want me to go to The Winter Palace and play Orlesian politics to stop the Empress being assassinated and _please_ don’t make me go alone Dorian. Josie has been grilling me about nobles and Leliana is trying to teach me stuff and I just don’t think I can do this. My head hurts just thinking about it.”

He smirks. “You want to take your nasty Tevinter Magister friend to a fancy Orlesian ball?”

“Dorian don’t make fun! They’re going to make me _dance_!”

“You can’t dance?” He’s honestly surprised. She’s so graceful on the battlefield.

“I can dance, but like, Dalish dances. I don’t know how to do all those stupid flouncy dances.” She stands in front of his chair with her hands on her hips and he can’t help but laugh. Her tiny frame and fluffy white hair make her look like an angry kitten. She kicks him in the shin and his shout prompts at least four nearby people to hush them.

Dorian stands and Rhiannon bites back a smile, shifting her weight from foot to foot, ready to fight.

“I’m not going to tussle with you, Rhiannon, if you want to fight go bother The Chargers.” He offers her a hand. “Would you like to dance?”

All the bluster leaves her and she gazes at him. “Oh Dorian, I’m very terrible…”

“I’m sure you’re fine,” he assures her, pulling her close as she takes his hand. He places his other hand on her waist and she places her’s on his shoulder.

There, in the library, the runaway mage from Tevinter teaches the lost Dalish Inquisitor a simple waltz. At first they dance without music as she masters the footwork, but eventually he starts to hum, soft and quiet, and she relaxes. Her head lays against his chest and a surge of fondness rolls over him; he cares so deeply for her, as though she were his flesh and blood, siblings from different worlds. As their dance draws to a close he steps away from her and bows deeply. Rhiannon giggles and curtsies.

“You did wonderfully, Inquisitor,” he says as he straightens. Her smile could light up half of Thedas.

“You’re still coming though right? Solas has already agreed, and Cassandra is coming too. I need you there, Dorian, I need someone fun.”

That makes Dorian laugh, and once again they’re hushed. “Alright, fine. I will come and help lay havoc to an Orlesian ball.”

Rhiannon beams and bounces to and fro in delight.

“Okay, off to Josie for more nobility lessons!” She blows Dorian a kiss. “A chance to learn is a chance to grow, as my Keeper would say.”

The words strike Dorian and he stares at her, long enough for her smile to dim into a confused frown.

When he finally finds his voice, he offers her a smile and says, “Don’t let them change you.”

\---

The night of the ball the Empress is saved, a public truce is declared, and the party is in full swing. Dorian stands at the door of the west balcony, drink in hand, and, by the simple act of being Tevinter, keeps curious nobles away from Rhiannon. She deserves peace, the evening weighs heavily on her gentle heart.

Only Solas is allowed through, a smile offered in passing. Dorian only catches wisps of their conversation, but when he hears Solas finally ask her to dance, he relaxes against the door. An Orlesian woman approaches and comments on his smug smile, which he passes off as the satisfaction of helping the Inquisitor save the day.

It’s not for anyone else to know.

\---

Adamant is brutal. All the nightmares they’ve faced can’t compare to the devastating fear Dorian feels when he awakens in the Fade and sees no sign of Rhiannon.

She falls into the sky and, propelled only by sheer determination, she guides them through the horrors. Her face is hardened against the demons they fight, and even as she softens at the sight of the Divine, she refuses to take the offered kindness at face value.

The decision to leave someone behind is what breaks her resolve, and she weeps as Hawke pulls her through the rift. She turns and closes the rift with tears rolling down her cheeks, collapsing even as Solas’ arms wrap around her. He falls with her, cradling her as she stares at the darkened sky and whispers apologies.

They return to Skyhold and Dorian doesn’t see her for two days. When she finally finds him in his alcove in the tower library, all his fear bubbles over as anger. He knows he shouldn’t shout at her, but at least she shouts back.

“I thought I’d lost you!” He can’t look at her, doesn’t want her to see how wet his eyes are.

The silence hangs between them.

“It’s changing me, Dorian,” she whispers.

He sweeps her up in a hug and he’s almost surprised at her strength as she clings to him.

“My clan used to say, _‘Stay true to yourself, don’t let them change you’_. But it’s so hard Dorian. I had to choose. I had to let someone die. How can I be me when I chose my own life over someone else’s?”

There’s no answer he can give her that would ease her pain. After everything she’s done for him; helping Maevaris, getting his amulet back simply because she knew it was important to him; even just trusting in him from the start, he wishes he could help her more. Instead they simply stand there, in his tiny alcove, and hold each other until the pain is finally bearable again.

“A man I once knew, an elf, it was the last thing he ever said to me. Don’t let them change you,” Dorian says, settling into his chair.

Rhiannon perches on the windowsill, putting her bare feet on the arm of his chair. She still refuses to wear shoes around Skyhold. She stays quiet, so he continues.

“He also said learning helps you grow. It was strange hearing it again after all these years.” He reaches out and lays a hand on her knee, her own delicate hand covering his.

“Where did you meet him?”

“In the woods behind my family home,” he continues, “he said he was from a Clan in the northern Free Marches, actually…before they sent him away.”

“He was a mage?”

Dorian nods, letting his head fall back against the chair. “He had such beautiful eyes…”

“Oooh, tell me more,” she pries, her playful smile returning as she needles him.

“There she is.” He’s deflecting. “I was starting to think we’d never see that smile again.”

Rhiannon gives him a look. She knows he’s avoiding the topic, but she lets it sit for now. “Guess I just needed the right company.” She turns her gaze to the centre of the room and her expression softens.

Leaning forward, he can just make out Solas in the room below, adding small touches to one of his murals, and Dorian chuckles. “Go talk to your man. I’m sure he’s worrying himself ill over you.”

She laughs and hops up, blowing a raspberry at him.

“You’re gonna tell me about this beautiful elf boy one day Dorian Pavus, mark my words.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to my beta! Sorry for the delay in chapters going up, life got hectic.  
> Yes I'm aware the amulet quest is part of the romancing thing, but I like the idea of being able to help him out with it even if you're just friends C:

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta!


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